


Unexpected

by FyrDrakken



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003), Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-04-17
Updated: 2003-08-04
Packaged: 2017-10-09 17:42:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/89930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FyrDrakken/pseuds/FyrDrakken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing of it was, Sam couldn't be in two places at once.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The thing of it was, he couldn't be in two places at once.

Heh, not even two places would be enough -- right now he was wanted in three, four, a dozen places, all over the Shire. But back home in Hobbiton, even in Bag End, he just couldn't be in two places at the same time.

Just thinking about it felt like pulling his heart near in two.

First there was Frodo -- and he _was_ first, first in his life, first in his bed, and after following him near-literally to hell and back there was nothing he wouldn't do for him. And nothing he wouldn't be given in return, either, if it were in Frodo's power to give. He knew that.

And then there was Rosie. She'd called the business with the Ring "wasted time" -- well, and from her standpoint he supposed it was. Couldn't expect a lass who'd never set foot outside the Shire in her life to know or care of dark lords and crushing armies and all of that. The closest the Shire ever came to understanding about the fires of Isengard threatening Tuckborough and Buckland was when Sharkey's men had settled in and started pushing folk around. How to make them understand that the Battle of Bywater was nothing, a mere scuffle, when compared to Helm's Deep or the Pelennor Fields? No more deserving of the title of "battle" than a tavern brawl.

And it rankled, it did, to see how the hobbits admired Merry and Pippin for the fine accoutrements and airs picked up when away, and were impressed by the Travellers' combat skills against a smattering of untrained ruffians, but blew off the whole blasted purpose of the quest as stuff that was of no importance at all to the proper runnings of the Shire. The Ringbearer had the great and the wise kneeling at his feet in thanks for what he'd done, yet back home he was a no-account eccentric considered suspiciously apt to take up with unsavory companions and hare off for foreign parts that no proper hobbit had any business in. Because he'd been too worn and weary of strife to draw sword in that little scuffle against the interloping men, he was considered lazy at best and cowardly at worst by a bunch of silly folk who had never even heard of the king!

It was enough to make Sam want to shake some of the fools around him, who knew nothing outside their small country and were loud in their ignorance. He was definitely beginning to see why Frodo and Bilbo used to wish for a taste of mayhem to shake some sense into their neighbors -- but see, they'd had that, no thanks to Saruman, and it hadn't left the survivors any wiser for the experience after all.

Rosie, well -- she hadn't known. She hadn't yet been told what all had gone on while he and the master were away when she made that careless remark. He'd gotten around to telling her the story of what they'd seen and done, as much as he could bear to speak of, though he wasn't sure how much of it had sunk in. The parts about how important it really had been to get that cursed Ring dealt with proper-like, and how Mr. Frodo really had been incredibly brave and impressive, and all that -- well, he was no kind of a storyteller, not like Mr. Bilbo or Frodo himself, but maybe he'd been able to make it clear enough.

Maybe she'd even pick up a bit from Frodo himself. The two of them seemed inclined to get on together well, which was both a pleasure and a relief to Sam. She'd been kind to Frodo while the pair of them were staying with her family during the repairs to Bag End, and the offer of a fine hobbit hole to live in was more than enough wedding gift to make a lass well-disposed to the giver even if she hadn't already been anyway.

The thing was, the offer hadn't been made as a wedding gift. Not originally. Sam knew that. Frodo had originally expected Sam to move in with him and for it to be just the two of them. Just as it had been through Mordor. Just as it had been after, lazing about in Minas Tirith waiting to be ready for the long journey home. Whether alone on the plain of Gorgoroth or surrounded by thousands in Minas Tirith or crowded into the Cotton family hole, at the end of the day it was just Frodo and Sam tucked in together against the night.

There were things in the night, things much less harmless than any hunting owl or passing fox like you'd expect to find in the Shire. Sam and Frodo knew that now. And Sam knew that, even in safe and cozy Bag End, the night pressed in too ominously when you were in a room alone, even with a cheerful fire lit and a properly full belly. And if _he_ found the dark a bit too unnerving to be gladly faced alone now, how much worse must it be for Frodo?

So. Frodo wanted a bit of company, help to fill that empty hobbit hole. A grand shame he'd never married -- though there'd been a lass or two he'd apparently had his eye on, it had never gone anywhere. A sad thing, the once-proud Baggins family thinning out the way it was, and those lovely eyes never to be passed on to any laughing curly-haired daughters to melt the lads' hearts in a few decades.

Sam mourned for the daughters Frodo would never have -- and the sons, too, who would never wreak havoc raiding farmers' fields and pranking the neighbors and tracking mud into the antique carpets of Bag End.

(When the thought occurred to him that Frodo himself might be too far gone, too burned out to even long for those never-born children, he banished it as quickly as it came. No good would come from dwelling on the worst things you could imagine.)

Sam had no intention of suffering the same fate, and there was no question of Frodo ever having expected him to, of course. Lads might make a habit of "seeing to" their closest friends when they were in their twenties and thirties, but they got married eventually. It didn't make their affections any less dearly held, that there would one day be wives and children to share them -- marrying would just cut down on the time they had available to spend with each other. (After all, it wasn't like their wives hadn't had a few romps themselves with their female friends before marrying -- or like their wives wouldn't be likely to chase them off to other beds when there was a new baby in the house and mum wanted a bit of a rest.)

Sam shouldn't have felt at all guilty about getting married -- he was of age, and she was the right age for it, and he had a position and all he needed to start feeding a family.

But.

But there had been that look in Frodo's eye, beneath the startlement, an emotion almost too fleeting to be named, when Sam told him about how he and Rosie had settled things between them. It had been barely a flicker, but after such long and close association Sam suspected he could put a name to it if he cared to.

He didn't care to.

The immediate counter-offer, for Sam and Rosie both to move in to Bag End, was both generosity and compromise. Generosity, to let them set up as newlyweds in comfort and with a roomy hobbit hole to fill with children in the years to come. Compromise, to put all Sam's responsibilities into one location and let him keep Frodo company while still fulfilling all the marital obligations he would be taking up.

But.

But that still left the nights, and that was what worried him the most.

Frodo was usually fine during the daylight hours -- and just as well, since most of Sam's duties tended to be out in the sunlight. Nights he had free to share with Frodo -- until he'd be married, and sharing them with Rosie as well.

Taking meals together, or sitting in front of the fire, were good things of an evening and just as well shared. But when the fire was banked and the lamps put out and people sought their beds -- well. In the wee hours of the morning, when the only other folk in the house were tucked away together in their own bed and you were far too polite to intrude on a married couple -- you might as well be the only person alive in the world, at that point. After all he'd seen and done, Sam knew that _he_ wouldn't care to spend many nights like that -- not now, at least. (Maybe not ever -- another thought to be forgotten if at all possible.)

Getting married wouldn't stop him from sharing a bed with Frodo sometimes -- especially with them living under the same roof. With Frodo yet unmarried, it would be only courtesy even if they didn't already care for each other so. But -- newlyweds were expected to spend a great deal of time with each other -- and their single friends were expected to have to resign themselves to finding other partners for a while, until the novelty of the opposite sex wore off (or, more likely, until the first baby came along and created a pause in the bedroom antics for a few months). Though Sam hadn't quite thought of a way to raise the subject with Rosie yet, he rather feared she would be very much opposed to his even spending so many as half his nights with Frodo -- great affection or not, and Frodo's great generosity and lingering ill-health notwithstanding. Whereas Sam -- though he was looking forward to finally sharing a bed with Rosie (very much so, truth be told) -- hated the thought of Frodo spending even so many as half his nights all alone in the dark with his treacherous memories.

Sam definitely thought he could name what he'd seen in Frodo's eyes for a moment. It might have been hurt, or shock, or even jealousy, under the circumstances. But he rather thought it wasn't any of these.

It had looked far too much like fear.

Not that Frodo wasn't far braver than any other hobbit Sam knew -- and a great many folk of other types besides. But that little flicker, at learning that his one companion against the night wasn't going to always be there for him...

Being left alone was a kind of fear that Sam could understand.

In a way, it was a pity Frodo hadn't been keen on taking other lovers, since taking up with Sam all those years ago. (Not that Sam hadn't been flattered and more than flattered that his lovely master was so content to share a bed with his gardener that he turned down the many, many offers he no doubt got from other lads over the years!) Sam had heard rumors that Frodo had been in quite a few beds in Buckland before Bilbo adopted him and brought him home, and even now he wouldn't have had any trouble "making new friends" if he'd cared to. But only two others in the Shire apart from Sam had any grasp of what Frodo had been through in the past year or two, and even they hadn't been in Mordor for the very worst of it. (And were very much wrapped up in each other besides -- though Sam rather thought they'd be not only glad but eager to make room for their cousin.) It was no place of Sam's to go telling Frodo where he should be sleeping -- not as his friend, not as his more-than-occasional lover, certainly not as his servant. But it was certainly understandable, that he would rather have someone who understood everything that had happened and wouldn't ask uncomfortable questions about the scars, would know what allowances to make and what subjects to avoid at all costs. (Sam managed to keep from thinking too long on how inward Frodo had turned, that he neither made new friends nor allowed his older ones to regain their former closeness. The four of them had shared things that no one else in the Shire would understand or care about, and it was only natural for them to seek each others' company afterwards.)

The great problem here was that Frodo shouldn't be left alone for too long or too often -- and he didn't really want anyone's company but Sam's most of the time. Sam understood all too well, and he loved Frodo and wanted to spend as much time with him as he could, for all the years of their lives... but. But there was Rosie, all bright and lovely and -- not unlike Frodo -- more than Sam would have ever thought he could rightfully aspire to. And he wanted to spend as much time with her as he could, too, for all the years of their lives...

Sam just couldn't be in two places at once.

He knew of a way to fix it, though.

He just didn't quite know how to put the matter to them.

* * * * *

Rosie Cotton -- Rosie Gamgee, now, for the past two weeks -- knew that her husband loved his employer.

This was fine with her.

She hadn't been very pleased to have Mr. Baggins go running off into the great unknown dragging Sam along with him -- but at least they'd both come back safely. She wasn't pleased by the scars she'd found on Sam, once they began the gentle lifelong process of familiarizing themselves with each others' bodies after their wedding -- but there had been nothing too serious, and certainly Mr. Frodo seemed to have gotten the worst of whatever happened to the pair of them. (She didn't know how much to believe of that story Sam had told her about what they'd been up to. He had been so clearly trying to impress her with the importance of some trinket Mr. Bilbo had picked up, and convince her that he and Mr. Frodo had been doing necessary non-time-wasting things while away, that she suspected him of exaggerating a bit. Still, they'd seen and done things that she hadn't, that was clear enough.)

But that Sam and Mr. Frodo loved each other -- that was fine with her. Sam might have gone running off after his master for a bit, but at least he'd been done well by when he got back. Mr. Bilbo's gift of the gold was fine enough, but getting to come live in Bag End -- more, to treat the grand home like their own, Mr. Frodo being so very determined to ignore distinctions between social class and treat them all as equals in true eccentric Baggins fashion -- well, clearly Sam was getting as good in the exchange as he was giving. And Mr. Frodo could do with a bit of pampering -- she'd seen how ill he'd taken, that spring while Sam was away with his planting. Clearly the poor dear was better off not rattling around in that vast house all by himself.

A pity he seemed disinclined to marry -- though Sam had told her that Mr. Frodo had hinted about leaving everything he had to Sam, she thought this was unlikely. Surely there were _some_ Baggins cousins still about, if he had no interest in taking a wife. And it wasn't like he didn't have a horde of relatives on his mother's side, Brandybucks being such a huge family and all. Still, it was a nice thought, and showed what a generous nature he had, and how devoted he was to Sam. At the very least he would be a kind employer and see that their family was well tended to, and that was enough for her.

He had treated her with the utmost respect and courtesy in all their prior dealings and even offered her a place in his home by extension of his offer to Sam. In return she would quite happily fuss over the overworn hobbit when Sam was about his duties -- whatever reckless and irresponsible things Mr. Frodo might have been off and doing, his gentle nature and generosity rated that much and more from her. Just as soon as he came home tomorrow -- for he had spent the weeks immediately following their wedding in Crickhollow with his cousins, letting the newlyweds have Bag End to themselves for a bit. Though she appreciated the time to get used to the idea of being Mrs. Gamgee and settle into their new home, Sam was fretting over Mr. Frodo's absence and by this point she was ready to have him back if only for Sam's sake.

In truth, Sam was the one who had insisted that Mr. Frodo be gone no more than two weeks -- the offer had been made to stay gone for at least a full month, but Sam wouldn't hear of it. Rosie might have been inclined to argue, had she been present for that discussion, that at least a month would be welcome -- but then again, she might not have, realizing how Sam fretted when Mr. Frodo wasn't where he could keep an eye on his master. She was quite happy to be alone with her Sam, and during the months he lived with her family she had learned to be almost comfortable around Mr. Frodo, however changed he might be from the laughing creature she remembered from before. But whenever she was in the room with Sam and Frodo together she had felt very much on the outside -- as though they were finishing a conversation she'd missed the beginning of. There were things between them that she knew nothing of. She had been almost frightened of intruding, at times.

She hoped that might have changed, now, with her and Sam sharing a bed like they hadn't been while he was living with her family before. Maybe it wouldn't be so much like the pair of them shared secrets that weren't any of her business.

Maybe she'd be on the inside now.

At the very least, she'd make an effort with Mr. Frodo, try to treat him as well as Sam would want him to be treated. Take some of the load off of Sam -- the poor dear, dividing his time between his gardens, his wife and his master. He wouldn't hear of her grubbing in the gardens along with him, but she could help take care of Mr. Frodo if the two of them would let her. She would try to cheer the other hobbit up a bit, maybe coax some of that old bubbling mischief back to the surface -- that would certainly make everyone in Bag End a bit easier with each other!

Maybe then it would feel more like "the three of us" and less like "the two of them -- and me."

* * * * *


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The surprise wasn't that Sam wanted her.

The surprise wasn't that Sam wanted her.

Frodo had noticed, long before, that Sam's eyes followed her whenever she was around. Surreptitiously, never openly, as though his attention was in some way not worthy of her, as though there was no possibility she could ever return his regard.

He recognized it, from when he and Sam had first met.

So many years ago -- covert glances, soft stumbling words, and always that unobtrusive _helpfulness_, the subtle signals encoding the message of a shy young hobbit in love. Frodo had more than enough experience to decipher the message, even newly come to Bag End, and had almost-demurely waited for the younger lad to decide for himself what he wanted -- until finally realizing with some amusement that Samwise Gamgee would watch forever without daring to make a move on his own behalf. He had taken pity on the young gardener-in-training, offering what was so clearly desired, and been rather pleasantly surprised -- astonished, rather -- at the depths concealed by the deceptively stolid exterior. (But really, anyone who watched Sam at work shouldn't have been so surprised at that gentle patience or that deep if unstated appreciation for beauty.)

He'd spent time in a fair number of beds, as a younger lad. Some he'd cared for more than others, but none he was especially attached to. Pleasant activity, a way to pass a long lazy afternoon. A bit of fun between friends. Nothing more meaningful than that. He certainly wasn't used to being the one having to do the asking.

He'd never been touched quite like _that_ before -- like something fragile and wonderful and unlooked-for all at once.

Frodo had stopped visiting other beds very soon after that.

He knew what Sam saw in Rosie.

It was that joy, bubbling up and out of her so that you almost see it sparkling in the air around her. Life and light and music and more than a hint of playful mischief.

He recognized it, from when he'd had it himself.

Sam was a watcher, and a listener. He wouldn't take it on himself to take part unless someone else dragged him in. Frodo had been the one to pull him along -- haul him off to the Green Dragon for a night's revelry, shove him into the lass' arms during the dance, bring him along when the whim struck for some new bit of fun.

Sam was a creature of the earth, still and quiet and deeply rooted. He needed a bit of wind in his branches to make him dance, a little added air and light and burbling water.

Frodo had once been all of that. A few short years and an entire lifetime ago.

Rosie still was.

So in kinder days when Frodo had first noticed his friend and lover had his eye on that particular young lady, he had been pleased and amused. In a way, it was flattering, that Sam enjoyed the gentle teasing and the laughter and the sheer exuberance enough to be looking for the same over again in a wife. And Frodo personally approved of Rosie -- not just joyous but kind and gentle as well, and unless he missed his guess not oblivious to Sam's understated charms. He had gladly encouraged Sam at every turn, but to no avail. Sam seemed unshakeably convinced that he had attracted a lover far beyond his deserts once, through some odd chance of timing or streak of Brandybuck unpredictability or Frodo's sheer matchless kindness, and to expect such a stroke of luck to repeat itself was a doomed hope.

So that was one reason Frodo hadn't looked for Sam and Rosie to be setting up house together any time soon. But it was the least of reasons -- Sam had grown rather more sure of himself in the time away, after what they'd done and seen, and more comfortable in his own skin. He might have finally decided it was time to take the chance and put the question to her.

Then again, she might have grown fed up with waiting on him -- or alarmed by his lengthy absence -- and finally just asked him herself. Frodo wasn't sure he'd put it past her -- she seemed like a lady who knew her own mind, and Sam's as well.

But that wasn't the true source of his surprise.

Frodo had thought he'd be marrying himself, once. Pansy Bolger in particular had caught his eye at one point, and he'd thought he had hers. Things hadn't gone that way. He supposed he was glad, now, that he hadn't had a wife and a few little ones when Black Riders were in the Shire looking for anyone named Baggins. (The thought of trying to make the flight to Rivendell with children in tow was a chilling one, though the thought of leaving them to take their chances in the Shire while he fled with the Ring was even more so.)

He couldn't see himself marrying, now. (He wouldn't wish such an empty shell of a husband on any lass he cared for -- and saw no point in wedding any lass he didn't.)

And Sam had been through so much of what he had. Certainly through the worst of it, in Mordor and the Fire Mountain. He'd even carried the Ring, so briefly. Surely he wanted no more than to curl up in Bag End and put the smial and gardens back to rights and try to forget about that whole accursed business, even as Frodo did.

Surely they both needed time to heal.

That Sam was already so healed as to be planning a wedding was a nasty shock.

Not just because he'd be getting less of Sam's time, though there was a bit of that. (More than a bit, if he were ready to be fully honest with himself -- which he wasn't, quite yet.)

But because it raised that question once again, that had been growing so much more and more troublesome as time went on.

Would he ever really be recovered from what carrying the Ring had done to him?

None of the four of them who had left the Shire would ever be quite the same as they had been, it seemed. Merry and Pippin were the youngest, and resilient, and destined to be the leaders of the Shire one day. They had been to war and come home wiser and apparently the better for it. Sam, though, had followed him -- walked with him, _carried him_ \-- into hell and home again. For Sam to have bounced back so quickly and completely was...

Well, it was certainly no more than he deserved. Sam had never asked to be caught up in the business with the Ring, had only followed him out of sheer loyalty -- even as Merry and Pippin had. All of them deserved to come out of the mess as well as might be expected.

(And what of himself, who had never asked to be caught up by the Ring either? Ah, but he'd agreed to take up the blasted thing and carry it to Mordor -- and then had tried to give it away at every turn, and then to keep it for himself at the end, his final treachery only redeemed by another's betrayal. He deserved no more than he'd gotten, had he?)

He had been offered an invitation. If he could find no peace in Middle-Earth, there was another land he could seek rest in.

He wasn't greatly tempted by the offer.

He didn't really want to go to Valinor, however beautiful it might be.

He wanted his old life back, with Bilbo and ten fingers and no scars beyond those caused by an active boyhood and no nightmares of wraiths or eyes or creeping dark chitinous horrors and no phantom pains striking him down twice yearly.

He was beginning to fear that, far from ever getting his old life back, there was really no life left for him at all in the Shire.

When Sam told him that he and Rosie had come to an understanding, he couldn't help but hear something else under the words.

_"Will you be wanting me to help you with your bag, Mr. Frodo? You won't want to miss your ship..."_

* * * * *


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam still wasn't too sure of how to put the matter to Rosie and Frodo.

Sam still wasn't too sure of how to put the matter to Rosie and Frodo. After thinking it over, he figured it was better to talk to Rosie first -- somehow he couldn't see Frodo agreeing to it unless he knew Rosie was in favor as well, so that settled the question of who to start with.

Which didn't help much with how to set it on the table in front of his wife -- and _there_ was something he was only just getting used to, too! It wasn't a thing he'd been expecting for very long -- only in the last few months before he and Mr. Frodo had left, really, had it seemed that Rosie might be willing to have him, and then he'd gone and left like that with no reason to expect she'd wait for him, or that she'd have him if he came back whole and sound. But he had, and she did and she had, and now she was Mrs. Gamgee and _that_ he didn't mind at all.

But.

But there was still Mr. Frodo to think of -- and more now than before, with him being so left out of things now that Sam was married and all.

Rosie had told him she'd be glad and more than glad to be seeing to Mr. Frodo while he was busy working out-of-doors and away from Bag End, and that just went to show how good a heart the lass had and how easy it was to see that Mr. Frodo deserved proper care.

The question was what kind of "seeing to" she'd be willing to do.

He'd had his idea well before the wedding, but decided to wait until it was properly done and taken care of. (Truth to tell, Sam had been half afraid of upsetting her to the point of calling the whole wedding off.) Now he'd had a full two weeks with her as husband and wife to talk the matter over -- and he still hadn't raised the subject.

Frodo was coming home this afternoon -- or evening, more likely, if those scamps Merry and Pippin were coming along like they no doubt were. Not much for early rising, that pair.

There was no time left for shilly-shallying.

Especially not since he'd left the matter alone that morning on waking -- nor brought it up at either breakfast, nor elevenses either.

Now it was lunch, and there was really no telling when Bag End would be descended upon by Frodo and his noisy oversized cousins. (Who, if Frodo had succeeded in rousting them out so early, would be noisily complaining about lost sleep and missed meals, no doubt.) Talking to Mr. Frodo at least could wait until the cousins had departed. Talking to Rosie needed to be done _now_, when there were none else in the house to overhear.

"Sam -- you've barely touched your lunch! Don't tell me you're already tired of my cooking?" The tone was teasing rather than insulted, fortunately -- not the best way to start this conversation, if Rosie had already been unhappy with him. As Sam forced himself to pay more fitting attention to as fine a meal as a working hobbit could wish for, she added, "Well, you've got _something_ on your mind, then -- might as well stop fretting over it and say it. No need to be skimping on meals over it, whatever it is!"

Well. There it was, then. Best to lead up to it a bit. "Mr. Frodo should be coming home today."

"And I've got his room nicely aired out and fresh linens on the bed."

"That's... that's good." Fighting down an unexpected, furtive, _ridiculous_ jealousy at the thought of anyone but him tending to Frodo's bedding, he added, "And I'm sure he'll be well taken care of. But." And there was a stopping point, as he hunted for the path from there to the destination he wanted.

"But," she prompted, when the pause stretched out overlong. Hands neatly tucked into the lap of her apron, she waited attentively.

"But it's not the days I'm worried about, it's the nights. And, he's not wanting to get married, and -- just what do you think about Mr. Frodo? How -- how much do you _like_ him?"

Oh, bloody hell.

Well, it had almost made sense in his head.

Almost.

Rosie blinked, but refrained from accusing him of having any ninnyhammer tendencies -- a result he had feared and expected. "Well, he's kind enough, and takes good care of you, and he shouldn't have gone running off to foreign parts, but so long as he stays right here in the Shire he should be right enough."

"And?"

"And?... And I wish he would laugh more, like he used to. I wish he would go down to the Green Dragon. I think he'd be better off going outside and seeing other folk and not spending so much time shut away with a book. He needs to eat more." She waited, eyebrows raised as if to say, _"Is that enough for you?"_

Reassuring, in a way -- he agreed with all of it, in fact -- but not quite what he wanted to know. The question he was really asking came closer to, "And if -- if I hadn't come back after all, and he'd been the one to ask you, would you have taken him? Or at least thought about it?"

"_Sam!_ What a question!"

Oops. There it was, the reaction he'd been afraid of getting.

"What do you mean, if you hadn't come back after all! Where would you have been, if not in the Shire?"

Well, maybe not quite the response he'd feared after all.

"If I'd gotten killed, drowned in that river or stabbed by one of the Black Riders or caught out by orcs or -- or stepped on by that cave troll, and Mr. Frodo had come back without me -- if he'd asked you, would you have maybe taken him?"

Rosie appeared to be almost quivering -- though whether with outrage at his question or with alarm at the reminder that he'd so nearly not come back to her, he couldn't say. "Questions about what might-have-been come to no good. You might not want to really know what I might have decided, and I know _I_ don't want to think about it!"

"Rosie, please. _Please_. Just think about it a little -- if I'd not come back, or -- or not asked you, or asked someone else -- would you have at least been a little interested, if Mr. Frodo was?"

"Sam, is this about -- oh, Sam, and with me being alone in the smial with him so much of the day -- Sam, you know you can trust me, surely! And with you and your Gaffer both on about what perfect gentlehobbits he and Mr. Bilbo were, even with the travelling they did -- oh, Sam! I know _I'll_ behave myself, and -- don't tell me you don't _trust_ him to be --"

"_No!_ No, don't -- that's not..." He just managed to keep himself from swearing out loud in front of his wife, which would have hardly been polite. He took a deep breath, silently thanked her for having stopped when he interrupted her, and tried again. "I know neither one of you would be up to anything you weren't supposed to, you don't have to tell me that. It's just -- well, he's not wanting to get married, and I think that's too much else for him to be losing, and I really _don't_ want him to be left alone nights too often, and... And..." Again, the stopping point, and this was the big one this time.

"And...?"

"And, well... My Gaffer said once or twice, about, sometimes -- sometimes, when two lads wanted the same lass and she wasn't like to choose to between 'em, or, or maybe two lasses with the same lad -- but that's not as easy to keep quiet about, what with the babies -- well, sometimes, some hobbits will just keep quiet and _share_ and it's really no one else's business what goes on in their house. And -- and it's not like we wouldn't already tend the house and take care of him _anyway_, so there wouldn't be anything extra but the -- the sleeping arrangements --"

There. There it was, out in the open, and no taking it back now if she didn't like the idea.

"Oh... _Oh._" She looked a bit wide-eyed at the notion, but at least she wasn't yelling at him. "Well -- well, I can see why you weren't eating your lunch, then, with that to say."

"A bit overmuch to think about, and I know I'm no good at that."

"Sam, stop saying that. No matter what your Gaffer told you, you're smarter than you think." The reproach was becoming an automatic response already -- Rosie had declared her intentions to make Sam stop calling himself any of his Gaffer's harsh names. "Do you -- do you want my answer now?"

"No! No, you can -- take as long as you like. Just -- think about it."

"And -- Mr. Frodo. He said he'd like to?"

"Well... I hadn't said anything to him. Wanted to see how you felt about it before I go --" _trying to talk him into it_ "-- talking to him."

"Oh. So -- if I say 'No' he never finds out about it? And if -- if I say 'Yes,' he may still say 'No'?"

A regrettable weak point in the plan. "If he says 'No,' I'll -- I'll tell him it was all my idea, and I talked you into it. You can say you didn't want to anyway, if you like." Fear of rejection was something Sam had an intimate familiarity with. He would spare Rosie as much of it as he possibly could.

"And I -- I get to think about it before you say anything to him."

"Wouldn't say anything to him tonight, anyway -- not with Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin under the same roof."

"No, I suppose not... I'll -- I'll think about it, then."

"Just -- thanks. For -- for thinking about it, at least."

* * * * *

And think about it she had, but the rest of the afternoon was spent less in thinking and more in trying to concentrate on her housework without frequent pauses for disbelieving contemplation. She was trying to get the smial into perfect condition for its master's return, but kept catching herself staring unseeing at a bit of well-polished woodwork, or sweeping the same bit of floor over and over again, while her thoughts chased each others' tails. _I can't believe Sam asked me to share 'sleeping arrangements' with Mr. Frodo!_ led to _I can't believe Mr. Frodo would be interested in **me** anyway!_ and then on to _I can't believe I'm **considering** this!_

When the master of the house finally arrived with his exuberant cousins, right before supper, she wasn't sure whether to be relieved or not. On the one hand, she was kept too thoroughly distracted with the meal preparations to have time to ponder her husband's astonishing suggestion any further -- the more so since it took threatened violence and alcoholic distraction to get Mr. Pippin away from the kitchen and out from underfoot. On the other hand, if it weren't for Sam's assurance that he hadn't said a word to Mr. Frodo, she doubted she would have had the courage to look him in the eye without blushing -- and even then she tried to stay in the kitchen and out of sight as much as possible.

That wasn't made easy when Mr. Frodo and his cousins fussed over Sam, offering congratulations and good-natured teasing on his newly-wedded state, before insisting that he and his new bride eat in the same dining room and at the same table as themselves. Which was a very inappropriate offer to make to the servants, but Sam accepted on both their behalves with much less protest than Rosie had expected.

Such breezy disregard of class lines was almost expected of Bilbo Baggins' heir, but that the future Shire Thain and Master of Buckland were sharing a table with a gardener's youngest son -- well, it provided further food for thought, on how much Sam had changed while away, and how much the four of the Travellers must have gone through together, and come to mean to each other.

Certainly she'd been shown just how much one of them meant to one other earlier that day...

And yet she was expected to sit at the same table as Mr. Frodo, with _that_ in her thoughts, and her mind not made up yet on what to do about it! She took refuge in the kitchen as much as possible, claiming to have "forgotten" half a dozen things to keep herself up and away from the table as often as she could.

Except _that_ led to Mr. Frodo following her into the kitchen to help fetch things, telling her on the way past, "No need for you to be waiting on the rest of us -- you're still supposed to be on your honeymoon, lass!" Which was rather endearing of him, actually, but did no good when she was trying to avoid the temptation to _inspect_ him, as though he was a pony she was considering the purchase of.

And _that_ led to thoughts of giving him a ride to test how smooth his gaits were. She managed to turn the giggle into a cough, reaching for her drinking cup to hide the smile.

_I suppose I could just ask Sam what kind of a ride he gives..._

Fortunately, Mr. Pippin was just finishing up his story about two Bracegirdle sisters, a cooper and a lost shoat, and her laugh mingled with that of the others around the table.

Somewhere about the time dessert was being served, she realized that some indefinable tension seemed to have gone out of Sam during the evening. Was it just that he had finally told her what had been on his mind, or was it that she seemed to be genuinely considering his odd notion?

Whichever, it was a pleasant meal despite her initial nervousness. As the evening wore on Mr. Pippin and Mr. Merry got themselves enthusiastically drunk on the cask of ale lurking in the pantry, though she noticed Sam limited himself to a couple of tankards and Mr. Frodo hardly drank any at all. She managed to evade the revelry by slipping into the kitchen and starting in on the dishes. (Not that she had anything against a good drink and a song in friendly company -- but she had no mind to risk blurting something out tonight. Not the way her thoughts had been tending, and most especially not in front of Mr. Frodo's cousins.)

Besides, she was able to ponder the new thoughts that had arisen during the meal, such as, _He'd be all angles, ribs and hips and sharp elbows, unless I can feed him up properly,_ or, _I wonder why he doesn't want to get married? And why Sam thinks he'd agree to having half a wife if he doesn't want one of his own?_

She was finished with the clearing-up well before the four hobbits in the drawing room were finished with their drink and talk and song. Sam spotted her, looking into the room undecidedly while she wondered whether she was expected to stay up all the night with the rest of them. Coming out into the hall with her for a few moments, he murmured, "Would you mind very much if I -- stayed with Mr. Frodo tonight?"

It was a surprise, though it really shouldn't have been. Couldn't Mr. Frodo and his cousins all tend to each other tonight? Ah, well, but she'd be sharing Sam with him anyway, whether she agreed to share herself with Mr. Frodo or not, so might as well get used to it.

At least she could get to bed at a decent hour tonight.

Accepting a goodnight kiss from her husband, she headed back to their shared bedroom. Closing the door behind her, she had another thought. _Does Sam want us all to share one bed, or would it be a different pair of us sleeping together every night?_ She wasn't really sure how that would work, all three of them in the same bed -- would they have to take turns, or could they find things to do to each other all at once?

She'd flippantly thought that Mr. Frodo and his cousins could all shag each other tonight, but on reflection she wasn't sure how _that_ would work, either. Truth be told, she wasn't very clear on the details of what just _two_ lads would be inclined to do to each other -- a vague idea of the mechanics, but not how such things were put into practice, or how they might be found particularly enjoyable.

Of course, if Sam was thinking about the three of them all sharing a bed at once, she would no doubt be finding out for herself.

Well -- if she agreed, that was, and if Mr. Frodo agreed as well.

She had to admit, the idea did have its merits.

Of course, she would need to feed him up a good bit. But if those sharp angles were padded out the way a hobbit lad should be, he'd actually be very nice-looking. And he had a fetching smile, if he could just be coaxed into using it more often. And a wonderful laugh, though it was heard so rarely now.

She might just be able to get him into a much better frame of mind. (She certainly had a great deal of success with Sam.) At least she could tease him away from the books a bit.

She would sleep on the matter and see how she felt about the matter in the morning.

Somewhere in the back of her mind she realized that her decision had already been made.

* * * * *


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frodo wasn't proud of himself, that first night back at Bag End after Sam's wedding.

Frodo wasn't proud of himself, that first night back at Bag End after Sam's wedding.

It wasn't at all appropriate for him to be asking Sam into his bed, with him so recently married and all. Certainly there hadn't been nearly enough time for Rosie to be ready to let her new husband go for a night, and with his own cousins right there under the same roof it was doubly improper.

Not that Merry and Pippin had ever asked or offered -- but then, as the younger cousins, it wouldn't be their place to do so. They could hint, they could imply, they could come right out and let him know they'd say "yes!" did he ever see fit to ask the question -- but he hadn't made the invitation.

Not to them, and not to any of his other old friends or distant relations in Buckland. And that was incomprehensibly odd, for a hobbit of his age to be spending a full two weeks sleeping alone with neither illness nor injury as an excuse. (Neither illness nor injury that anyone in the Shire would recognize, rather, for the travails of being a Ringbearer were not common lore.)

But it had been his choice, not to entangle himself in matters of the heart or body -- or even of more-than-dear friendship -- since returning to the Shire. Not alone because of his own lingering malaise, and not for the way none who had not seen the War of the Ring firsthand seemed to understand what he had been through, either.

He just hadn't been interested.

It had caused some difficulties in Minas Tirith during his and Sam's recovery, when Sam had regained an interest in satisfying certain physical desires long before Frodo had. Pleading exhaustion wore thin after a time, and putting Sam off too long or too often led to him worrying that Frodo had lost interest in him.

Nothing could be farther from the truth.

Frodo had indeed lost interest in many things -- but never Sam. Sam had been with him through all of it, the crawling dark in the tunnel and the seared waste of Gorgoroth and the bright-burned end of everything Frodo had ever wanted or hoped for. Sam had brought him out of spider's web, orc's lair and mountain's fire, and home again to a Bag End grown small and drear. (True, the eagles had more to do with the rescue from Orodruin than Sam had -- but Frodo remembered nothing of the flight to safety, only Sam leading him from the Cracks of Doom until they drifted from awareness hand in hand and woke in a world made anew.)

If anything, Frodo had lost interest in all else _but_ Sam. When the light seemed to dim and the air went chill and drear, no fire's heat nor blanket's wrapping seemed to help his worn-thin frame hold any amount of warmth. Only Sam's comfortably hobbit-solid form seemed to ward off the cold, an ailment less of temperature and more of the spirit. Sam's soul remained unquenched by Mordor -- whereas Frodo's had burned low and flickering.

At first, in Minas Tirith, Frodo had thought that Sam could warm him through and through in time. As one candle might be used to light another, so Sam's heat might feed his own until he was restored. Certainly the curl of Sam's body sheltering him in the night helped stave off the dreams -- or at least helped remind him on waking that the spider was driven off, the orcs scattered, the Nazgul brought low. A reminder of calm and safety, of gentle summer days and cozy winter nights.

But as the months passed and the others were restored to full health, Frodo's chill remained. And though there were good days, when the sun was bright and the world seemed cleansed and he remembered that there was joy to life as well as pain -- still, there were not so many as Sam and his cousins had. And they did not grow more frequent as time passed -- rather the contrary, as his health refused to improve and the nightmares continued to disturb his rest. Discovering that the wounds of blade and sting would sicken him on an annual basis was a crushing blow -- for he could no longer entertain the possibility that time would ease all or even most of his troubles.

Under the circumstances, it was unsurprising that Frodo had lost interest in the pleasures of the flesh. The warm presence at his back in his bed was welcome -- the lovemaking wasn't. He didn't want to hurt Sam's feelings -- had he been able to feign interest he would have. He responded to Sam's overtures with an almost overwilling ardor whenever he felt capable of doing so, to make up for the times when he couldn't.

He supposed that was more than sufficient reason for Sam to have settled the matter with Rosie. Had he still been optimistic about his eventual recovery, he might have been almost grateful that his lover was finding a new partner to take care of what Frodo couldn't for a while. But since he no longer expected to get any better, it felt like Sam had replaced him. Which was ridiculous -- a wife wasn't the same as your closest friend, even if both shared your bed on suitable occasions, and certainly one didn't replace the need for the other.

But.

But feelings didn't respond well to logic.

In Crickhollow for the past fortnight, he'd refused Merry and Pippin's hints out of that same damnable lack of interest in bedroom activities -- but stayed up drinking the night away with them whenever they were willing. It wasn't the inebriation he sought so much as the company through most of the night, and dreamless sleep afterwards. Sleeping during the daylight hours came more easily, when waking blessed you with motes dancing in the sunbeams streaming through the curtains, rather than cursing you with ominous noises in the night. And when it came to staying up most of the night and sleeping late into the day, Merry and Pippin were well-suited companions.

Two weeks of an empty bed was quite long enough for him to begin wishing for Sam again, though. He wasn't exactly a tweenager anymore, but neither was he used to sleeping alone for such a length of time. Had he not known the date of his return to Bag End was so close, he might in fact have given that expected invitation to one or both of his cousins. Had he taken the full month he'd offered Sam, he almost certainly would have.

But he hadn't, and so he was able to show Sam all the interest he could have hoped for, once the door had closed behind them.

* * * * *


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The thing to expect, in a case like this, where the one was not even a full month wed and the other had affectionate not-prohibitively-closely-related members of the same sex right there in the smial with them, would be that one would be spending the night with his lovely warm bride and the other would be tucked in happily with his cousins.

The thing to expect, in a case like this, where the one was not even a full month wed and the other had affectionate not-prohibitively-closely-related members of the same sex right there in the smial with them, would be that one would be spending the night with his lovely warm bride and the other would be tucked in happily with his cousins.

But this was Mr. Frodo, and Sam knew better than to expect him to act like any other hobbit. So after supper, when Rosie had retreated into the kitchen with the washing-up, Sam took advantage of one of Merry and Pippin's trips to the pantry to refill everyone's tankards and dropped a quiet word in Frodo's ear. Somehow he wasn't surprised when Frodo said, "Oh, yes, please!" first, and only after the unthinking acceptance made polite noises about not wanting to take Sam away from Rosie so soon after the wedding.

So he sent Rosie off to bed by herself, when she came to check on the gathering after the dishes were tended to, and was thankful that she let him go for the night with such good grace. (Had Sam been inclined to seek troubles, he might have worried that she was annoyed enough by his little proposal to be glad to have him out of her bed for a night or two. As things were, he was merely grateful that he wouldn't be finding out her decision just yet.)

Sending Merry and Pippin off for the night took a great deal longer, though eventually even they were content to seek their shared guest bed. It worried Sam, that neither one seemed to expect Frodo to join them, or even appeared surprised that Frodo and Sam were off to Frodo's room together. He had a very unpleasant suspicion that Frodo had chosen to sleep alone while at Crickhollow, contrary to all good sense and expectation.

Certainly Frodo acted like a hobbit in need of a good shagging, all hungry kisses and fast-wandering hands. Sam had barely closed the door behind them before Frodo had him pinned against the wood, kissing him and unbuttoning his shirt all at once. Which was a nice enough greeting, and by no means unwelcome -- especially after the worrisome listlessness Frodo had shown in bed for far too many months.

Admittedly, it would have been even more welcome had it come while Sam was sharing a bed with Frodo every night, rather than after two weeks of enthusiastic exploration of the differences between a lad and a lass. Sort of like going on short commons for a while and then being given a feast after you'd finally started getting a proper six meals a day again. Not that a hobbit ever turns down a meal -- the timing could have been better, was all.

But Sam didn't mean to discourage Frodo from anything that got him back to normal, whenever it might occur.

And Sam had been worried -- so very worried about Frodo, about the way he'd lost interest in so many things. He had hoped that being back in the Shire, in Bag End where he belonged, would have a healing effect -- and then he'd hoped that being with his cousins would do it, back where he'd spent his childhood and away from where every room of the smial and every path in the countryside carried memories of Bilbo. Neither seemed to have worked as well as needful.

So it was good, that Frodo was at least back to himself enough to need love, and -- though Sam knew it was greedy and selfish and unworthy of him to think so -- Sam was rather sneakily glad that Frodo only wanted _him_ in his arms and in his bed.

That wouldn't do at all in the long run. Rosie had nearly as great a claim on Sam now as Frodo himself had. If Frodo could be lured to Rosie's bed, things would balance out, the tug-of-war would become a circle.

If.

But time enough for "if" tomorrow -- tonight, Frodo needed out of his clothes and into the bed.

How many times had Sam unbuttoned weskit and shirt to expose a slender moonglow chest? Surely hundreds, over the years, and not enough times yet to be accustomed to the thin purple line marring one shoulder. Frodo wriggled out of waistcoat and braces impatiently, but Sam pulled him close before he could quite divest himself of his shirt.

A kiss on the lips, tender on the one side and hungry on the other. Another under a pale sharp jaw, where the pulse thrummed under his lips. A strong thumb rubbing the scar, followed by a kiss. (Sam had worried about the mark, about whether to steer well clear of touching it at all, about how much handling the entire shoulder could bear now, until Frodo confessed that it was always cold and that any heat was welcome. Now Sam paid special attention to the scar, wishing he could rub it away and erase it completely.) Frodo tolerated this for a moment, though he made a grab for Sam's rear and pulled him close enough for an insistent wriggle, silently warning that he wasn't in the mood for slow foreplay tonight.

Reading the signal with the ease of long practice, Sam released the arm around Frodo's waist, allowing him room to finish unbuttoning Sam's shirt. Sam halted him just long enough to strip Frodo of his own shirt, draping it over a convenient chair. No time for folding the laundry, with Frodo pulling Sam's braces and shirt off now and tossing them in the vague direction of the chair. Breeches hit the floor almost simultaneously and were not picked up, as Frodo kicked his aside and made a dive for the bed.

Turning to face Sam just as he followed between the covers, Frodo rolled himself neatly in his lover's arms.

No conversation, then, with long familiary leaving words unnecessary.

_I missed you,_ pressed against Sam's hip, with Sam's agreement hot against his belly.

_Come closer, love,_ arms around Sam and leg curling across his hip.

_Yes, touch me **there**,_ a sharp inhale and slow exhale.

_Rub harder -- **harder**,_ a hip movement that took on an insistent rhythm.

_Now,_ pushing Sam onto his back and half crawling atop him, reaching past him to the drawer of the bedside table.

_**Now**,_ the agreement as Sam rolled Frodo off and took him by the shoulders.

_I'm ready,_ legs hooking over Sam's arms, flexible like no hobbit past the age of thirty had any right to be.

_Right there,_ a cry and an eager arching into that pressing oil-slicked finger.

_Hurry up!_ a little exhale of almost-protest as the finger disappeared while Sam made further use of the scented oil.

"Sam...," the first word spoken by either since they'd entered the room together.

Settling into the rhythm familiar as his quickening heartbeat after so many years, Sam finally realized the source of the nagging oddness that had plagued him through the weeks since his wedding.

He was just so used to seing _dark_ curls spread out over a pillow, rather than honey-blond.

And Rosie had lovely blue eyes, sure enough, but they just weren't that shade of summer sky that seemed to look right _through_ you and down to your soul.

Looked down into your soul and showed the one behind them in return, and there it was, his Frodo, looking back, and it was _him,_ he was _there,_ not off wandering in some dim internal world where Sam couldn't follow

Frodo was here, under Sam, eyes locked with his and hands clasped behind his neck, where he belonged. Rosie was here -- in Bag End at least, though not here in the bed with them -- but Sam was suddenly sure that she would be.

Everything would be fine, it all would work out, the days were no trouble and the nights they'd just have to work out where all the legs would go.

Everything was going to be fine.

And suddenly there was no way Sam would be able to wait, to last long enough to give Frodo the proper shagging he needed, so he reached down with still-slick fingers and took Frodo in his hand. Hot and thrumming, and about as familiar to his fingers as his own cock by now, and Frodo closed his eyes after a few strokes and bucked upwards into Sam's hand.

And it was that face, that Sam had to see -- the reason why he always wanted Frodo facing him if they could possibly manage it. (The one that he'd so hated seeing when it was the Ring's doing and not his own -- sheer jealousy had been his strongest armor against the damned thing's blandishments in the dark land.)

Seeing that look on his Frodo's face was enough to spill Sam over the edge this time.

_It's all right,_ he thought, grabbing a flannel from the nightstand afterwards and getting the both of them tidied up. As Frodo kissed him drowsily and snuggled into his arms, _Everything's going to be fine._

* * * * *

Rosie didn't try to discuss the matter with Frodo the next day. It was obviously Sam's task to put the matter before him, both as the one with the extensive history with Frodo and as the one whose idea it was. Granted, Sam was likely to twitch and dither and postpone the matter for as long as possible, if his performance with her was any indication. She didn't want to be left hanging for weeks and months to come, wondering if she hadn't been told anything because Frodo hadn't made up his mind or because Sam still hadn't worked up the nerve. But the prospect of raising the question with Mr. Frodo herself and finding out Sam _hadn't_ already set the matter before him... Well.

She was frankly expecting Frodo to pull her aside, wanting to, "ask her about something Sam said to him." As courteous as he'd always been, and as quiet and diffident as he seemed now, she just couldn't see him agreeing to such an unusual arrangement without sounding her out for himself and no doubt taking a few weeks to mull it over besides. No matter what Sam muttered about rash Brandybucks and impetuous Tooks, or what the non-Gamgee locals said about mad Bagginses, or even that story Sam told about Mr. Frodo agreeing to walk all the way to Mordor on the spur-of the-moment, like -- Rosie just couldn't see Mr. Frodo as being overquick to make up his mind on something this important.

And she didn't want to rush him -- but she didn't want to spend too long in suspense, either. So the thing to do seemed to be not giving Sam any time to dither.

She cornered him on the way out the door, after he'd taken Mr. Frodo his afternoon tea in the library, which mean that _he_ was safely occupied for a while and unlikely to overhear a brief exchange in the kitchen. "Did you ask him?"

"What?"

"Did you ask him what you asked me about yesterday?"

"Well... No, not yet." Unable to meet her eyes, he added, "There hasn't been time, what with us getting... caught up last night, and unpacking his things and all."

"You couldn't fit in a few words between rounds?" She let him see the skeptical look perfected by her mother over years of raising excuse-making offspring and handed down intact as a birthright to the only Cotton daughter.

"Well, it... didn't seem the time."

"Well, _find_ the time, or I'll do it myself!"

He tried to find the most suitable response to that -- judging by the look on his face, _"Say **what**?!"_ seemed to be running neck and neck with, _"Well, **you're** awfully eager...,"_ though, _"Would you, please?"_ was apparently gaining on the rest of the field.

Not wanting to give him time to call her bluff, she added, "And I'm sure I'd do a horrible job of it, too, and put him off entirely -- but I refuse to spend the next half a year waiting to find out if we're doing this or not because you couldn't bring yourself to say a word to him in all that time! It'll be a long enough wait for him to make up his mind one way or the other."

With that being said, she made her escape from the kitchen without leaving Sam time to reply. If she knew her husband like she thought she did, _that_ should have lit a tidy little fire under his toes to get him moving...

* * * * *

"Sam, is there anything wrong? You act like you have something on your mind."

Sam paused in the middle of refilling one of the lamps in Frodo's study. "No, not... not really."

Frodo contemplated his dearest friend's inability to lie with ease or plausibility, as he let the matter go without further comment.

For now.

Sam sometimes found himself caught in a struggle between his own inherent honesty and the ideas about "not gettin' above his station" that his Gaffer had attempted to pound into him. If it were a matter he felt strongly enough about, he worked his way up to saying it eventually.

Especially if Frodo kept encouraging him to speak up whenever he looked troubled or conflicted.

It was only a matter of time and opportunity.

* * * * *

Sam wasn't sure how to interpret Rosie's impatience.

She certainly hadn't been in this much of a hurry when _he'd_ been courting her. Charming enough, and all smiles whenever he'd glanced her way, and quick enough to respond when he _did_ finally speak up -- but she'd given him all of the time he'd needed to get to the point. Never shown a sign of anything so unladylike as wanting him to get to the blasted point.

Well, no. That wasn't _quite_ true. In point of fact, she'd told him he'd "wasted enough time already" when it came to setting their wedding date.

He supposed that the year he and the others had been gone -- without even leaving a word of explanation behind! -- was enough to use up the last of any lass' patience.

And after she thought they'd gotten everything settled and mapped out good and proper, here he went and dropped an idea like this on her and altered the entire landscape. So in all fairness, he could see why she wanted the matter settled one way or the other.

But what worried him was the way she seemed to expect Frodo to need "time to think about it." Frodo didn't spend weeks pondering the situation when he had a decision to make -- it might take him a while to work up to doing what he'd been planning, but his mind would have been made up long before.

So Sam wouldn't have a lot of time to coax and convince -- he'd have to put the idea to Frodo exactly right. And he'd have to pick his moment, too, and catch him in the right mood.

And now it looked like he'd have to speak his piece before Rosie jumped in first.

Sam was very unhappily imagining Rosie coming up to Frodo bold as brass and saying, "My Sam told me he wants to share me with you, if you're interested. So how about it?" He wasn't too sure how Frodo would react -- long-time friends and lovers or no, Frodo had surprised him on many an occasion -- but he couldn't quite see that scene ending happily.

Somehow, it wasn't helping him think of a _good_ way to put the offer to Frodo, either.

* * * * *

Rosie supposed it was like courting, after a fashion. So, as the lass, it was her job to be vivacious and friendly and let the lad in question know she'd noticed when he did something wonderful and hope that eventually he'd get it through his thick ~~Gamgee~~ Baggins skull that she might actually _want_ to go walking along the edges of Bywater Pond with him of an evening.

There had been times she'd wanted to shake Sam, or just come right out and be the one to do the asking herself.

But Lily Cotton hadn't raised her only daughter to go putting herself forward like that.

It wasn't her place to be the one doing the asking.

Doubly so since she was a married hobbit now, and there shouldn't be any asking to be done except of her husband. So under the circumstances, she was just as glad Sam would be the one doing the asking again. She could handle her half of the courting (or should it be, her _third_ of the courting, under the circumstances?) just fine. And with her not letting Sam put off his part of things for a few years like he'd done with _her_, that just left things up to Mr. Frodo.

She could only hope he wasn't quite so bad as Sam was at making up his mind -- though the way he'd remained appalling single after all these years didn't bode well for his ability to take a lass' hints.

Then again, he was a well-practiced flirt, she was delighted to discover at dinner. So maybe he wasn't quite so clueless after all.

* * * * *

Married life certainly seemed to agree with Rosie, at least. Frodo wasn't entirely sure whether Sam had found cause for regret so soon after the vows had been spoken, or had merely been reacting badly to being separated from Frodo -- he would reserve judgement until he'd settled into the new routine at Bag End.

Frodo wanted Sam to be happy with Rosie.

He could not deny that there was a certain, rather nastily Gollum-like voice in the back of his head whispering that it served Sam right not to be satisfied with the wife he had abandoned Frodo for -- and he bloody well _should_ feel guilty about casting his poor master aside, too! But the better (and, he hoped, stronger) part of his nature wanted Sam to have all the joy in the world.

Even if Frodo couldn't share it with him.

And if there was one person who seemed to share his conviction that Sam deserved good things, it was Rosie. Frodo counted this as a strong point in her favor, as was her apparent determination to make their living arrangement a harmonious one. How else to explain the way she asked him about the book he was working on?

Not because she was interested in what he was writing, surely. She had made her position abundantly clear when he had been living with her family -- Bagginses (and certainly Tooks and Brandybucks as well) might concern themselves with the doings of elves and kings and heroes outside the Shire if they wished to do so. Such tales as they brought back sometimes made welcome entertainment on a long winter's eve -- but the events retold had no _relevance_ to the daily lives of the folk of the Shire.

In other words, she thought his book was a waste of time.

Not that she would ever say so to his face -- it wasn't _her_ place to tell the current master at Bag End how to spend his time, and he certainly had the financial means to follow whatever idle pursuits struck his fancy. But none of his careful translations, nothing of the tale of the Ring that he was currently struggling to capture on paper, not a bit of what he wrote had the slightest value in the _real_ world for her.

No more value than what he and Sam had done while they'd been gone, as far as she was concerned.

(Which was another of the things he didn't like to think about, so he wouldn't. And Rosie was making it easier to ignore by pretending she didn't feel that way, so he'd play along.)

Had it been a single lass pretending to be interested, he would have assumed that she had an eye to becoming the next Mrs. Baggins. But since Rosie was safely married -- and already the mistress of Bag End, in fact if not in name -- that couldn't be her reason. He could only assume she was making an extra effort to be kind to her new master, no doubt to please Sam and foster domestic tranquility among the three of them.

Frodo knew how badly Sam wanted his new wife and old friend to like one another. And he was willing to make an extra effort to get along with her, the more so since they'd be seeing a great deal of one another, sharing a smial as they were. Since she was clearly interested in the same thing he was, this shouldn't be a problem.

So he would be friendly right back.

"Its a very dry, scholarly tome," he warned her playfully. "I'm writing an account for history. It's not very entertaining or colorful a read -- no doubt you got a much better version from Sam."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," Sam interrupted cheerfully. "I'm sure I got it all jumbled, throught not keeping track of what all happened when. _You've_ been the one asking everyone about it and getting it all straight in your mind -- I'm sure you tell it much clearer than I ever could."

Frodo shook his head. "You're a much better storyteller than you realize, Sam. I don't think I understood how hard it is to bring life to a story until I tried it for myself. I don't think anyone but a historian could enjoy reading what I'm writing. And you've certainly got more interesting things to do with your time," he added for Rosie's benefit, with a little twinkle of good humor. He appreciated the show of interest, but he wouldn't punish her for the polite lie by taking her offer seriously.

She surprised him with her persistence. "Maybe you should let someone else read it and judge for themself how boring or lively it may be."

"Perhaps I should. Someone with a great deal of time on their hands who doesn't bore easily."

"Surely it can't be so bad a story as that, if you're writing it down for history? Histories are exciting, aren't they?"

"No, _tales_ are exciting. Histories are likly to be a dry recitation of facts set down by some pale chronicler who doesn't spend enough time outside and had to ask everyone else the story because he didn't see any of it for himself."

"Well, I'll admit you could do with a bit of the sun on your face. But you _did_ see what happened -- Sam said you _did_ most of it."

"I did some of it, but other did as much and more. _Sam_, I should point out, saw at least as much as I did and was a damn sight more useful in the long run. By all rights it should be _his_ story."

"That's not true, Mr. Frodo, and you know it. _You_ had the worst of it -- I just followed where you led, and did for you where I could."

"And watched my back the whole way, and carried me when I couldn't go on, and got me moving again when I was ready to give up."

Rosie shifted in her seat a little, which reminded Frodo that she probably hadn't intended the conversation to take such a serious turn. Deliberately lightening the mood, he added, "But Sam wouldn't trust anyone else to tend to the gardens here, and since I'm the one who spends all his time mucking about with quill and ink and dusty old books, I'm the one who got stuck with writing the history. I told you, it's not very good -- if you're looking for something to read, I've got some lovely tales you would enjoy. Or there's always poetry -- that's Sam's favorite." Sam's ears turned a bit red, as Rosie gave him a surprised glance, which was interesting -- had he never mentioned that to her? "Not always originally written in Elvish, and some that were have been translated into the Common Speech. Ask me after dinner if you want and I'll read some to you. Or Sam could always recite something," he added just to see if he could make Sam blush again. (He could.)

Evidently Rosie liked teasing Sam as well, since she said, "So _that's_ why you used to spend so much time here as a lad, Sam -- you had to get the gardens tended _and_ learn your lessons, too!" Turning to Frodo, she added, "You must be a very good teacher."

"He is that --"

Frodo cut him off. "_Bilbo_ was a very good teacher -- he taught us both. Sam is a very good learner, too -- I just had more time to spend practicing."

"Well, there's time and then there's _inclination_, if you follow me --"

"Sam, if you say something about keeping your place or quote your Gaffer, I'm throwing my potatoes at you. The fact that you just used 'inclination' in a sentence proves that you're not as ill-educated as you seem compelled to pretend to be."

Rosie was nodding firmly, which was heartening. With the pair of them working in tandem, they might be able to stamp out the worst of the Gaffer's attempts at class indoctrination within ten years or so.

If Frodo had ten years to spend on the project, that was.

He feared Rosie would find herself finishing the task alone.

And he was turning too serious again -- that wasn't how he wanted tonight to go. Tonight should be about settling in and everyone getting comfortable with each other -- as a household of three, rather than as Sam's future missus and Sam's master and best friend, or as the daughter of the Cotton household and two guests of her family. Their _real_ first night in their home together, now that Merry and Pippin were back to Tuckborough.

Filling in the gap in the conversation with a change of subject, "So, how are you finding it living in this overgrown smial? Not too gloomy and empty, I hope?"

"Oh, no, it's lovely! Could do with filling up, though -- all those rooms and only the three of us to fill them right now."

"Well, that's for the pair of you to tend to. Bilbo's father dug for a large family but only had the one son, and Bilbo and I never married. Looks like the Gamgees will have to keep all those bedrooms from going to waste."

She bit her lip, visibly hesitant, before saying, "Sir, if you don't mind my asking, how is it you never married?"

It was an overly personal question and she knew it, too, or she wouldn't have stuck in the "sir." He looked to Sam, but to Frodo's surprise no protest at the impertinent question was forthcoming. Sam apparently wanted him to answer the question.

Frodo sighed, wondering if he was meant to be be reassuring her that she wouldn't find her position in the household abruptly supplanted by a new Mrs. Baggins. "When I was younger, there were a few lasses I might have liked to... come to an understanding with, but it never seemed to work out. And then I just -- gave up looking."

"And now?"

He sighed, letting the weariness and pain he'd been so carefully keeping from his manuscript seep into his expression for just a moment. "And now I'm too old and tired for anyone to have me."

"You don't look your age -- and I don't believe you couldn't still get a lass' attention."

Frodo gave Sam another look -- almost pleading this time. _Why aren't you putting a stop to this?_ The part about age and exhaustion he didn't even want to _think_ about explaining honestly in front of Sam. "There have been a few ladies dropping hints -- but I try to ignore them as politely as possible."

"Why?"

"Because they're not hinting that they're interested in _me_, so much as interested in becoming the mistress of Bag End -- and willing to put up with marrying me as the price to pay." She winced, and he tried to lighten the mood again. "Still, they're often better than some of the lasses my aunts tried to shackle me to when I was younger. _They_ acted as thought I were an unruly pony that needed to be broken to harness."

Evidently he'd succeeded better than he'd hoped, judging by her snort of startled laughter.

Or maybe not -- she seemed embarassed at her reaction, quickly stifling her giggles as thought caught joking at a funeral.

Ah, well. He'd tried, but evidently tonight was not to be a convivial evening. A pity.

"I'm sorry, the conversation has been a bit too depressing for the dinner table this evening. May I suggest a change of subject -- to anything that isn't about _me_?" He kept his tone bantering, while shooting Sam a Look that said, _It's as well you'll be in another bed than mine tonight, laddie. Otherwise you'd be sleeping all by your lonesome..._


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam thought the evening had gone reasonably well, considering.

Sam thought the evening had gone reasonably well, considering. Rose had been attentive towards, interested in, or concerned about Frodo, as appropriate. A fine bit of groundwork for the uphill task of convincing Mr. Frodo that she'd be willing.

Which was just as well, since after he'd bathed and joined Rosie in their bedroom she greeted him wtih the blunt, "Sam, I want you to go talk to him."

"_Now_? Tonight?"

"Yes! He's lonely and unhappy and he's going to probably be thinking about how he'll never have a wife of his own half the night -- go talk to him!"

He could see the sense of it when she put it like that -- but, "I'm still not quite sure in my own mind how to put it to him."

"Well, _I'm_ sure if you aren't. And I'll do it if you won't."

By the set of her jaw, this time she meant it, too.

"Right. Right, then. I'll go. You... you stay here and get ready for bed. I -- should be back in here, tonight. Maybe."

"Go. I'll wait up for you."

Well, and wasn't _that_ promising -- having to discuss what he'd said and done immediately after, and not doubt having her telling him how he _should_ have done things. Perfect way to end the evening.

Sam sighed dismally and set off down the hall.

One thing she was right about, at least -- Frodo was still up, the lamplight glinting around the edges of the door. Though when his knock remained unanswered for a long minute, he thought Frodo might have fallen asleep with the light still lit -- _Do the shadows trouble him so much, still?_ \-- but then he heard a sharp, "You might as well come in then, Sam."

Oh, and that was just the _last_ thing he needed -- Mr. Frodo in a mood right when he _had_ to say this.

Well, no. The **last** thing he needed was to go back to his room, tell Rosie that Frodo was too cranky to listen, and have her come back here to talk to Frodo herself.

"A pickle and no mistake," he murmured, cautiously opening the door.

"What was that all about?" Frodo demanded. In a mood, to be sure, face set and eyes snapping. "And why didn't you step in and put a stop to it?"

Sam couldn't always follow Frodo's thought processes. He had accepted that years ago. It didn't keep him from occasionally feeling left behind. And having been heavily pondering the proper phrasing of a most improper suggestion on the walk down the hall, Sam was especially unready for the argument that had apparently been waiting for him.

Not giving Sam sufficient time to mentally backtrack through the evening until he had an idea of what had set him off, Frodo went on. "Were you the one filling her head with all that marriage talk? Or could you just not convince her that she doesn't have to worry about me bringing home a wife to unsettle the household after she's got it all arranged to her liking?"

Sam frowned thoughtfully. There was a way from Frodo's complaint to his proposal, if he could just find it. The trick would be in not straying from the path and finding himself in a mire up to his neck -- or over his head. "I told her you weren't planning on wedding. I couldn't tell her why, and she took it on herself to ask."

"Well, it wasn't her -- her business to ask!"

Sam had a suspicion that Frodo had been about to say it "wasn't her place to ask," but had veered off at the last moment. "Place" was a very touchy subject where the two of them were concerned. "WIth all respect, _sir_ \--" that word was a warning sign, when the two of them were alone together and Sam wasn't merely keeping up appearances for the sake of the audience "-- I can't be everywhere at once. You and Rosie are going to be looking after each other when I'm away. It was a bit pert of her to ask it, but it'll make things easier all round if you two are easy with each other. I'm sorry she got above her place, there, but that's the way I see it."

Frodo sighed. "And I've been arguing with you about your 'proper place' for too long now to say anything about your wife keeping to _her_ proper station, is that it?" He seemed rueful now, rather than angry, which was a step in the right direction at least.

"Yes, sir."

Sitting on the edge of the bed, "And you're 'sir'-ing me now, so I know I must have been stepping on your toes."

"Maybe just a little. Not that I can't see why you... weren't any too keen on being asked about it." Accepting Frodo's silent invitation, Sam sat next to him. "She was just -- worried about you," he added more quietly. "We both are."

"Are you, now?" Sam preferred Frodo in a genuine temper to this closed wariness. No expression, giving nothing away.

"She sent me down here to talk to you just now. Seemed to think you'd be in here brooding half the night if I didn't. Threatened to do it herself if I wouldn't." He stopped abruptly, realizing he had gotten a bit too close to dangerous ground too fast.

"Really?" A mild tone -- a very _deceptively_ mild tone, Sam suspected. "Why wouldn't you have wanted to come in here? And what would she have said if you hadn't?"

"Well..." Sam looked away, feeling his ears growing hot.

"Don't tell me she's taken it on herself to do a bit of matchmaking on my behalf?" The tone wasn't pleased.

"No, not exactly..."

"Or is she just on the look out for a lad to help out around the place a bit -- and to take care of my bed so _you_ can be taking care of _hers_?" Resigned, now.

"_No._ That, she wasn't doing."

"Well, what _is_ she doing, then?" A bit curious, but sounding like he didn't expect to like the answer, whatever it was.

"First off, it wasn't her idea, it was mine."

"...Which was?" There should be curiosity now, and impatience at the way Sam was dragging things out. Not this grey waiting, this listless acceptance. Frodo looked _numb_, as though expecting bad news atop too many piled woes for one more to matter much.

And it _hurt_, to see such a weary expression on his Mr. Frodo, who had always wanted to _know_, and expected to learn good tidings.

Reaching a hand out to cup around Frodo's cheek, Sam whispered, "It's not _right_, you being alone when I'm with Rosie, and it's not right leaving her when I'm with you either. And I can't even be _here_ all the time."

Frodo closed his eyes, leaning his jaw into Sam's hand for a moment. "I know, Sam. You were never meant to be pulled in two like this."

"Which is why I asked Rosie, and she agreed -- she's willing to share, if you are."

"Share? Isn't that what we've just decided you _can't_ do?" Impatient now, Frodo pulled away from Sam's hand, rising to his feet. A few restless quick steps towards the chair and he stopped, no destination in mind but sufficient distance reached.

Sam wished Frodo would turn back around so he could see his face. But the set of his shoulders, the way he folded his arms and lowered his head, curling in around himself, conveyed unhappiness as clearly as his expression ever could have.

"I don't mean, sharing me between the two of you. Or not _just_ that, anyway. I mean, you and Rosie too -- all three of us together."

A pause, as Frodo didn't move. But then his head lifted, his shoulders straightened, and he turned. "What?"

Well, it wasn't acceptance. But Sam was willing to be optimistic. Frodo looked startled, and as though he were questioning his ears -- or whether Sam had simply gone mad under the combined strain of tending an ailing former Ringbearer, healing the wounded Shire, and keeping a lusty new wife happy.

Startled, confused -- and inquisitive.

It was that last that gave Sam the most hope.

Not just because he looked alive again.

Not just because, if he was still able to be curious, that meant the old Frodo was still in there somewhere, and maybe just needed a bit of coaxing to come out.

But because Sam thought curiosity would get Frodo into a strange bed a lot quicker than desire, and twice as sure.

* * * * *


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rosie was trying not to fret as she waited, sitting up in bed with her hands folded in her lap. She wasn't sure which idea made her more nervous -- that Mr. Frodo would say "no," or that he'd say "yes."

Rosie was trying not to fret as she waited, sitting up in bed with her hands folded in her lap. She wasn't sure which idea made her more nervous -- that Mr. Frodo would say "no," or that he'd say "yes."

The muffled thud against the bedroom door made her jump. Tossing the covers aside and sliding out of bed, her feet hit the floor just as the doorknob rattled. The door opened as she reached the end of the bed and she halted, surprised.

It wasn't Sam entering at all, but Mr. Frodo.

Backwards.

Still kissing Sam -- which solved the minor mystery of what had struck against the door before it opened.

Rosie wasn't sure how to react. A minute ago, she had been wondering if Mr. Frodo would even want to, and now it looked like he did -- _tonight_. **Now**, even.

And it wasn't that he wasn't easy on the eyes or that she hadn't already agreed in advance -- it was just that he was _here_, in his shirt sleeves and with his braces down around his thighs, entering _her bedroom_. With the ease of someone who had a _lot_ of practice in backing through a round doorway in mid-snog without disengaging long enough to see where you were putting your feet.

"Unexpected" didn't begin to cover the situation. "Sudden" wasn't even close. "Frightening" was rather near the mark.

Rosie was wondering if she had time to bolt for the wardrobe when Sam brought their kiss to an end. "Rosie -- come here, love."

She wasn't sure if she could -- and then Frodo turned and met her eyes.

Which was when she remembered that Mr. Frodo had been a well-brought-up Shire lad.

Who obviously _had_ picked up a great deal of experience with other lads -- most notably and obviously with her Sam -- but who had probably never been to bed with a lass before.

Almost certainly, now that she thought about it, he being such a nearly-perfect gentlehobbit, and his prior flirtations having ended so unsatisfactorily. Making him quite probably still a virgin. (As such things were rather oddly reckoned in the Shire, where anything that couldn't result in a baby "didn't count.")

Which became abruptly obvious when he met her eyes with a startled look -- as though he'd been so rapt in kissing Sam that he had forgotten she would be present in the room -- and took a little step or two to the side, almost hiding behind Sam.

It put a whole new slant on the situation. Suddenly she wasn't the most nervous person in the room. And just as suddenly she wasn't nervous at all.

Closing the door and leaning back against it, Sam neatly denied Frodo a hiding place. "Come here, love." As Frodo and Rosie each took a step towards him and then paused in mutual confusion, he added, "Both of you, I mean."

Hooking an arm around Frodo's waist to keep him from drifting off, Sam reached the other hand out to Rosie as she approached, pulling her close and into a kiss.

When he lifted his lips from hers, he gave a meaningful glance in Frodo's direction. Frodo was blushing, more than a bit, and seemed unsure of where to safely rest his eyes.

She got the point. Frodo kisses Sam, Sam kisses Rosie...

Rosie kissed Frodo. A soft mouth, with a lower lip that seemed to demand nibbling. She resisted that impulse for now. When she rested a hand on his shoulder she discovered humming tension under her fingers. That and the memory of the look he'd given her called up another recollection -- a deer, startled on the road, deciding whether or not to jump and if so in which direction.

No need to go scaring him out of the bedroom just yet.

Sam let her have a longer kiss with Frodo than he had given her -- in fact, after a minute he leaned in and started in on the side of Frodo's neck, kissing before nibbling and then sucking as he traced that pale throat up to a delicate ear.

She felt Frodo relaxing under that familiar touch, and was emboldened to the point of running her tongue along that biteable lower lip.

By the time she was running her tongue along his, she vaguely wondered when he had put his arm around her shouulders.

She noticed when Frodo put a hand on her breast, though, because it was Sam's hand guiding it. Sam switched necks at this point, deciding to come kiss hers for a while.

Sam was also the one to steer her hands to Frodo's shirt buttons, before pulling back a step or two -- just far enough to get room to start working on his own shirt. Rosie took her time with Frodo's buttons, keenly aware both of the quality of the fabric under her fingers and of the pale chest being revealed. Definitely not like any other grown fellow she'd seen with his shirt off -- Sam and her brothers, for example, were all solid with hard work and good eating, and tended to be both sunbrowned and lightly furred. Frodo put her in mind of nothing so much as a rather sickly lad at that moment, needing a fair bit of cosseting and feeding up.

It didn't exactly spoil the mood for her, but it certainly reminded her to take things slow and careful.

As did the hand on her breast -- the one that, with Sam's initial encouragement, had taken up a cautious circular motion. By the time she reached the last button she could tend to without untucking his shirt, the hand had stilled entirely. Glancing up, she saw -- what? The look on his face was -- not passive, exactly, so much as --

Waiting.

Curious, even. As though he were wondering, _What are you going to do next?_

A very good question.

She didn't take her eyes from Frodo's, but in her peripheral vision Sam was still. Also waiting. Up to her, then.

Well, there was a logical step to take. After all, one of the three in the room was shirtless and another was halfway to being there.

She tried to give Frodo a reassuring smile (or at least one that wasn't excessively bawdy). Gently removing his hand from her breast and undoing the tie at the neck of her nightgown, she pulled the gathered fabric loose and let it fall where it would.

The gown was made to the design favored by hobbit matrons all over the Shire. The overlarge neckline (threaded through with a bit of ribbon to allow it to be modestly tightened) was of course there to make it easy for a mother to nurse her babies -- and therefore expected to become necessary soon enough after a lass married -- but until then it made things conveniently easy when it came time for the begetting of said babies. Untie the bow while standing and the gown might drop past your shoulders and fall off completely.

In this case, it hit her raised forearms and stopped, she having felt that it was a bit too soon for full nudity under the circumstances. (As a fairly new bride having dressed for her husband to join her in bed, of _course_ she wasn't wearing anything under the gown.) The startled and yet rapt look Frodo gave the newly-exposed areas was frankly charming.

Sam chuckled -- approvingly, she thought -- and moved in on Frodo again, gently freeing him from his shirt and giving him another of those soothing kisses behind the corner of his jaw. When Sam stepped aside -- probably to hang or at least neatly fold the removed garment -- she caught Frodo's hands and gently steered them to her breasts.

He had a very light touch -- she couldn't help contrasting it to Sam's on their wedding night. Though they'd saved what was proper to wait on for their honeymoon, there'd been a fair amount of play between them in the months leading up to the wedding, and his hands had been gentle but confident. Frodo's were cautious, as though he weren't sure how delicate her breasts were -- or mayhap as though he expected an objection to his touch at any minute. Rosie wondered if any of the lasses he "might have liked to come to an understanding with" had ever let him have a little feel -- he certainly acted as though they hadn't...

She let Frodo continue his explorations while she reached for Sam and tried to unbutton his trousers one-handed. It wasn't a very successful attempt, but Sam proved quite capable of removing his own breeches once the task had been suggested to him. Indeed, by that point it was no doubt a relief to be freed from the straining fabric. _Glad he's enjoying the show..._

"You know, you _could_ rub a little harder," she suggested to Frodo. He was blushing slightly as he met her eyes again, but he pressed his fingers a little more firmly against her. At least, he did with his left hand, and she wondered whether he was holding back with the maimed hand because it pained him. _One more thing to find out about later._ For now, she was more interested in getting another kiss than she was in satisfying her curiosity.

He moved his hands off her breasts -- perhaps a bit reluctantly -- and slid them around her shoulders as she pulled him close. Tucked in close enough to verify that he was indeed enjoying himself, after a moment's enjoyment she reached towards Sam with one arm to bring him closer. Somehow arms rearranged and it turned into a triple embrace, Sam's arms around their waists, kisses being randomly exchanged between any two of the three.

Rosie was just as glad to let Sam deal with Frodo's breeches -- he was much more familiar with the contents of them than she was, after all. When Sam slipped a hand between the other two and ran it down Frodo's belly to the fastenings of his trousers, Rosie stepped back to give him room to work. It seemed an appropriate time to pull her arms free of the sleeves of her nightgown and let it fall to the floor. Habitual neatness led her to pick it up and drape it across a nearby chair, but most of her attention was on her husband and their master.

She didn't think she'd ever seen a prettier sight than her Sam, not a stitch on him, kissing Mr. Frodo while very gently unbuttoning his breeches and sliding them down past those slender hips.

Seeing the pair of them like that, it was impossible to forget that they'd been doing this together for well-nigh on to twenty years. It made her feel like a latecomer, an interloper, for a moment -- but she stepped forward anyway.

After all, she'd been invited to share.

* * * * *

Frodo had somehow allowed Sam to steer him back to the newlywed's bedroom. He couldn't quite credit Sam's offer -- how could Sam _possibly_ have convinced his respectable young bride to consent to such a thing? -- but sheer confusion and the inability to deny Sam anything he asked had somehow led to him being insistently guided down the hallway to the room where Rosie supposedly waited for the pair of them.

A few doors down from the bedroom in question, Sam had halted and kissed Frodo. Warm and reassuringly familiar, and even after the previous night Frodo wanted to make up for the time spent away from Sam's touch. Still confused but much more willing to be led to any room with a bed in it, Frodo cooperated.

By the time Sam pinned him against the bedroom door for a slow, deep kiss, Frodo had almost completely forgotten that Rosie was supposed to be a part of this.

At least until after Sam had backed him into the room, when Frodo heard a sound that might have been a muffled squeak and turned to see an astonished Mrs. Gamgee.

At first, all he could think was, _Bloody hell, Sam didn't even **tell** her about it..._

He was trying to compose an appropriate apology -- something along the lines of, _"I'm terribly sorry, I didn't realize you'd be in here -- don't mean to intrude, I'll just be going now..."_ \-- when Sam said, "Come here, love."

Frodo had another horribly guilty moment when Rose stepped towards Sam, before Sam said, "Both of you, I mean." But when Sam kissed Rosie, he stopped feeling guilty and just felt horrible. _I shouldn't **be** here, I shouldn't be seeing this..._

He wasn't quite ready to ponder whether he felt that way because he was intruding on the privacy of a married couple, or because he was watching Sam with someone else.

In any case, when Rosie kissed him it drove the thought completely from his mind.

Somehow, in his mental consideration of what Sam could possibly have been thinking when he came up with this "sharing" idea, and his wondering about what might actually lead Rosie to agreeing, Frodo had completely forgotten to ponder what it might be like to make love to his best friend's wife. He just hadn't gotten that far -- the idea didn't seem real.

But when he had Rosie's lips pressed to his -- and Sam working his way up his neck in an infinitely familiar and reassuring fashion -- he decided to just... quit thinking about it.

Something unexpected and inexplicable seemed to be happening. Unlike many of the things that had happened to Frodo over the past two years, this seemed to be potentially rather pleasant. Sam wanted him to do this, and he owed his life and what remained of his sanity to Sam. Rosie seemed not to object. Very well, he would cooperate.

The whys and wherefores could be ironed out later.

And as for the consequences... Well, he might not be around to deal with them for very much longer, whatever they might turn out to be.

By the time Rose guided his hands to her bare breasts, he was quite willing to switch from passive to active cooperation. The trouble was, he wasn't quite sure how. Having the evidence that the parts differed from what he was used to literally at his fingertips, he didn't really know how to proceed from that point. Sam's addition to the embrace was a relief, and when Rosie stepped away Frodo was content for the moment to be back in Sam's arms. It felt like retreating to a position of strength -- or returning to a subject one was expert in.

This time it was Rosie who turned it into a triple embrace. By this point the three-way hug and the evenly-distributed nuzzling was becoming almost familiar, though having the participants completely without clothing added an exciting new dimension to the experience.

For as long he might live, whether in Middle-Earth or across the sea, Frodo didn't think he'd ever forget the moment when Rosie and Sam each took him by a hand and led him to their bed.

And whatever might come of it, he never wanted to.

It was a good old-fashioned bed, broad enough to easily fit the three of them. Sam got in first, sliding well over to make room for the other two, and then Rosie followed Frodo.

There was a limit to how long one could engage in a good snogging session without wanting to proceed further, and Frodo suspected that Rosie might get bored with having him handle her breasts before too very much longer (if she wasn't already). It was therefore a great relief when Sam took Frodo's hand and guided it up Rosie's inner thigh to a very interesting region indeed -- and an equally great relief that Sam left his own hand in place to steer Frodo's fingers to a few areas of note.

Rosie made approving noises and gave a few enthusiastic wriggles as Frodo discovered that this spot _here_ was especially good to rub, while this crevice down _there_ became intriguingly damp and inviting. Once Frodo seemed to have a decent grasp on the relevant geography, Sam turned his attention to Rosie's hand, silently inviting her to show Frodo that she knew a bit about rubbing herself.

By the time Rosie slid a thigh across his and moved to kneel astride him, the situation seemed to be well under control. Not that he didn't appreciate it when she guided him into the right spot, or when Sam made sure he kept his fingers to that sensitive little nub that reacted so well to attention. The motion was a bit different than he was used to, but the rhythm wasn't hard to find with Rosie guiding him to match her movements. Having Sam lying beside him murmuring in his ear was too familiar to feel odd, even under the circumstances.

He wanted it to last -- at least long enough for her to finish. He didn't quite make it.

Having been politely raised with the belief that under such embarrassing circumstances one apologized and then finished one's partner off by whatever means necessary, Frodo was prepared to do so -- just as soon as he could get voice or limbs to work again. Before he'd gotten quite that far, however, Sam had risen to his knees, taking his wife and gently disentangling her from his best friend, rolling her off and onto her back. He then proceeded to demonstrate a different position in which to do what Frodo and Rosie had just been doing. For her part, Rosie demonstrated what it looked like when a hobbit of the feminine persuasion reached a sexual climax.

By that stage of affairs, it never even occurred to Frodo _not_ to watch.

* * * * *

Things had turned out far, far better than Sam had felt he had any right to hope for. Not only had Frodo allowed himself to be lured into their bed, but Rosie's not inconsiderable charms had wakened a more enthusiastic response than Sam had thought to see so soon after a night like Frodo's return from Crickhollow. (Or perhaps it was just the novelty -- but new wore off, whereas the lady was here to stay. Sam preferred to believe that his missus would be able to capture Frodo's attention when he couldn't -- it boded well for the long term.)

Watching the two of them together had been rather an unexpected thrill, too. Sam moved to intervene and help things alone when they got bogged down, but watching his Frodo and his Rosie learning how to love each other was more fun than he'd realized it would be. He was almost glad that Rosie didn't finish with Frodo -- it gave him an excuse to jump right in for a round of his own, without even having to stop and choose which of them to shag. (Seeing them together like that, it had been difficult to decide which of them he'd want first when it was his turn.)

A pity he couldn't think of a way to have them both at once. (Though if anyone could figure out a way to do such a thing, it would be Mr. Frodo, he was sure. Just because he had a better sense of decorum than Merry and Pippin didn't mean he didn't know a thing or two about how to have fun in the bedroom...)

Sam was very glad indeed that Frodo had brought Rosie so close, because he doubted he'd have been able to last long enough for her otherwise. The question now was whether he'd be able to talk either into another round...

"I, uh, have to ask..."

Well, well, well. Seemed Frodo was wondering the same thing.

Sam just had to laugh. Well, it was more of a chuckle, really, seeing as how he was still getting his breath back and all.

Rosie saved him from having to answer. "Come here, you," she said, pulling Frodo closer.

Sam cleared aside with a light heart. By the time it was his turn again, he'd be more than ready for it.

_Everything's going to be just fine._

* * * * *


End file.
